


Wrapping Things Up

by Ludwiggle73



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Christmas Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28364613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ludwiggle73/pseuds/Ludwiggle73
Summary: Every year, the Beilschmidt pack gathers for Christmas dinner. This year might be a little different.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway (Hetalia), England/Prussia (Hetalia), Finland/Sweden (Hetalia), Germany/North Italy (Hetalia)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 25





	Wrapping Things Up

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be finished and posted for Christmas Eve, but alas. Better late than never, I hope - and while I'm hoping, I hope you all had as lovely a December as can be had right now. Please be safe and well, everyone.
> 
> And to my lovelies who always read and kudos and comment, thank you so much for this year <3
> 
> xoxo

After greeting the other dogs—Aster ever the patient matriarch, Berlitz ignoring most everything in favor of Heel, and Blackie once again the victor of their tug-of-war with his best chewy rope—and receiving pets from almost everyone—Bjørn, a friend of her Peter’s parents, has grown too big to bend down but was never a guarantee anyway—Hana decides to explore.

She’s not used to this house. She’s been here only a couple times since her Peter took her home, and on those days she only got to go briefly into the living room before Peter took her and the other dogs out to play in the massive backyard. Everything here is massive, aside from Blackie of course. She follows Aster around for a while, but the old girl is only interested in curling up on her bed near the woodstove. So Hana ventures on alone, pushing at closed doors with her nose instead of her paws because now she knows scratching is Bad Dog.

It takes a while to find a room that’s interesting. Downstairs is just the kitchen and the living room and the bathroom and the dining room, and she’s seen all of those in her own house. There are good smells in the kitchen, but she knows it’s not very Good Dog to stay in there while people are bustling around, even though they might drop food and that’s always exciting. She can smell something interesting under the door to the garage, but Peter’s sire never lets her play in the garage at home so she doesn’t bother to push that one.

The stairs are a little tricky because they don’t have carpet like at home, but eventually she gets to the top. Here there’s a room that smells like the dogs and their person, Ludwig, and another one with the door shut that smells like Ludwig’s sire. Another bathroom, smaller than the one downstairs. She’s ready to give up and go back down to find her Peter when she finds a door just slightly ajar. The tiny, paper-scented breeze trickling through the gap intrigues her, so she nudges her head in.

Boxes. Not like the ones under the tree in the living room. Blank, evil boxes.

She whimpers.

“Smell me again. Do I smell right?”

Gilbert leans over the center console and Arthur feels his breath whuff against the back of his ear, down his jaw, to the scent gland at the crook of his neck that Gilbert’s teeth brush over—

“Excuse you!” Arthur pushes him back. “I said smell me, not _scent_ me.”

Gilbert glances down at the hand on his chest, amused. “Sorry. Couldn’t resist.” He twines their fingers and gently lifts Arthur’s hand to sniff at his wrist. Though a bit of arousal darkens his eyes, his smile is cordial. “Smells like omega to me. But I still don’t understand why . . .”

Arthur takes his hand back and looks up at the huge house they’re parked in front of. He wonders if Aldrich is looming invisibly in one of the windows. It’s still light enough out here that all he can make out through the glass is the golden glow of the Christmas tree. They’ve had the conversation multiple times leading up to this day. Christmas dinner. A good thing they have it the night before Christmas Eve, or they would’ve had to choose between the Beilschmidts or the Kirklands. If Arthur survives this horror show, his family will be a stroll in the park—and _that_ is saying something.

He sighs and turns his attention back to Gilbert. “Will they all be fine with it? One hundred percent accepting, no doubt in your mind?”

Gilbert opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. Arthur has never admitted it, but he hates that helpless look Gilbert gets in his eyes when he frets about the approval of his sire. Arthur’s brothers might be an annoyance and his dam might still see them all as whelps, but he’s never had to worry that his family doesn’t support him. Coming out to them was easy. Coming out to Gilbert’s pack, on the other hand . . .

“Exactly,” Arthur says. “I’ll just do it sometime next year. I don’t want to ruin anyone’s Christmas with a fight. I’ve kept it from them this long. It won’t be any different just because I’m in the same room as them.”

For once, he’s glad his changes haven’t come faster. He’s been on testosterone for almost five months and he still doesn’t need to shave. His voice is deeper, but probably not enough to differ significantly from their memory of it. And his face is a bit of a mess but Aldrich will likely just assume he has poor hygiene or something and think nothing more of it. Not that Arthur cares what Aldrich thinks. Not really.

Just enough to put on omega perfume.

Gilbert’s uncertainty furrows his brow enough that Arthur realizes it’s become concern for him more than Aldrich, and some of the ice around his heart defrosts. He leans across this time, resting his cheek against Gilbert’s. His alpha rumbles for him, a sound Arthur hasn’t yet been able to produce. He gives his best approximation of it, a raspy sort of purr that has Gilbert giving that gravelly chuckle—the effect of which on Arthur he knows full well by now, the bastard—and nuzzling into Arthur’s hair.

Despite the danger of the house and its occupants, Arthur lets his eyelids droop. “Mm, we could just stay in the car all night, if we wanted.”

“Eventually, you’ll say _let’s just live here_ and I’ll agree,” Gilbert says. “But today is not that day.”

Seven months ago, in the earlier days of their courtship, Arthur would have stiffened and went silent with dread at the idea of Gilbert joking about finding a place together, let alone actively wanting to do that. But now, after he’s stayed by his side through mood swings and impressive acne and even given him his shot a few times when Arthur’s hands shook too much for it . . . There’s not a whole lot left to defrost.

Gilbert cocks his head, peering closely at Arthur’s face. “You’re not crying, are you?”

Arthur bristles. “Of course I’m not.” Although now he is blushing. “I’m method-acting. The poor emotional omega. Woe is me, whatnot, helpless wench that I am, please get me pregnant and do my taxes for me.”

Gilbert laughs, the glorious percussive one rather than the hideously sexy one. “You don’t want me doing your taxes. Your extra deduction would be huge. You like instant gratification too much for that.”

Arthur holds his phone to his ear. “Hello, you’ve reached kettle. Oh, how do you _do_ , pot. What’s that you say?” He speaks over Gilbert’s laughing protests. “Sorry, there’s a bad connection. Something about black?”

Gilbert opens his door and all the locks pop up. “One more riff and I’m leaving you in the car.”

“Oh, well in that case . . .”

Ludwig has just sat down with a mug of punch when he hears the front door open. Berlitz sits up from her place at his feet, but only when Gilbert’s call of “Hallo!” rings out does her tail begin to wag. On impulse, Ludwig checks his watch to see how late his brother is, but Feliciano gently tugs his sleeve back down again and smiles. There’s something missing from that smile, a lightness faded in his eyes, but Ludwig can’t address that ache in his chest right now. Not with his sire sitting by the fireplace, watching solemnly as Peter runs from the room. _“You’re—you’re finally here! We’re all, we’re in here, and—and waiting for you!”_

“Is that so?” Gilbert asks, appearing in the doorway with Peter on his hip. He glances around the living room—Mikkel, Bjørn, Berwald, Tino, Ludwig, Feliciano, and Aldrich lording over his kingdom—and grins sheepishly. “Oh. Guess it is.”

“Always have to make an entrance,” Mikkel says, grinning along with his cousin. Carefully removing his arm from the waist of his mate, he rises and extends his hands. “Get over here, you’ve been a stranger for months.”

“Busy, busy,” Gilbert agrees, and engages in a back-slapping embrace with him while Peter sits with Berlitz on the floor. Arthur stands partially behind him, just as awkward as Ludwig remembers, but doesn’t shy away when Mikkel pulls him into a loose hug as well. Does Gilbert look anxious when Mikkel’s face ducks close to Arthur’s head? The second is over before Ludwig can be sure. Maybe he’s just projecting his own nerves onto everyone else.

They make their slow way round to everyone, complimenting Bjørn on the healthy swell of his belly and glow of his skin, inquiring as to the ongoing success of Berwald’s mechanic business, admiring Tino for keeping his alphas in check (and assuring him he looks better than ever despite his worried claim of gaining ten pounds every Christmas), respectfully appreciating Aldrich’s austere brigade of nutcrackers, and then there’s no one left but Ludwig and Feliciano.

Who, of course, hops up and kisses Gilbert and Arthur on both cheeks. “Merry Christmas!”

Even Arthur smiles faintly at the enthusiasm, which has Ludwig feeling disproportionately proud until Gilbert gives a meaningful glance to Feliciano’s sweatered stomach and asks, “So, how is he doing in there?”

Ludwig holds Feliciano to his side. “Slow and steady wins the race.”

Feliciano’s gaze drops, stabbing more guilt into Ludwig’s heart. Arthur misinterprets the downtrodden expression and says, “Chin up, mate, my family’s full of people who were tiny pups and we’ve all turned out alright. Give or take a brother or two, but—” Gilbert clears his throat, so Arthur concludes, “Anyway, no shame in it, is what I’m saying.”

Feliciano smiles and nods, but it’s not the overflow of happiness it should be. His silence alone is proof enough that he’s upset, but Ludwig can’t help him here. He’ll have to try to snag a moment alone with him soon, and apologize. He knew he should’ve warned him ahead of time, discussed his plan for this . . . well, it’s not exactly deceit, just more of a delayed truth. But he knows Feliciano would protest, and this silent treatment is that but worse.

“Well,” Bjørn says, swinging as elegantly to his feet as a heavily pregnant omega getting up from a sofa can, “I think we should get back to dinner.”

Tino and Feliciano nod, then glance at Arthur. No one has forgotten the smoky little incident last year. Ludwig is actually one of the few who don’t hold it against him; he too had the younger brother’s childhood of retreating to daydreams when he wasn’t big enough for the fun being had elsewhere. The only difference is that Aldrich trained that dreamy distractedness out of him early, and Arthur grew up in—based on Gilbert’s descriptions—something not too far off from an artists’ colony.

“Oh,” Arthur says. “Yes. Dinner. Lovely.”

Tino and Bjørn exchange a glance, but Feliciano—well-versed in doom and gloom from his brother—just smiles and takes Arthur’s hand. “We’ll find something for everyone to do. We’ll help each other. Okay?”

Oh, how Ludwig wishes that was directed at him. Feliciano has always been his light at the end of the tunnel. What if he’s ruined that with this decision? But what is the alternative? Impossible.

Arthur glances at Gilbert, but all his mate does is give an encouraging smile and say, “If you can’t find anything to do, you can always bring me some Feuerzangenbowle.”

Mikkel and Berwald exchange a glance this time. Arthur puffs up to about half capacity and says sweetly, “If I knew what was, darling, I’d still tell you to go get it yourself.”

Ludwig winces on his brother’s behalf while Mikkel acts the crowing frat member. Gilbert holds a hand over his heart, wounded but accepting a good-natured defeat, most certainly an understated performance to what might have happened without Aldrich present. Bjørn and Tino welcome Arthur into their fold, pleased by this show of equalism regardless; Bjørn has made it known several times that the omegas are only cooking because the alphas are so terrible at it. Ludwig doubts Aldrich will join in with the alphas when they’re on cleaning duty after the meal. If it’s anything like last year, he’ll just disappear into—

“My study.” Aldrich has crossed the room without Ludwig even noticing. The fact that he is nearly seven feet tall and yet still so light on his feet is just another contributing factor to Ludwig’s belief that his sire will outlive everyone in this house despite turning sixty-one this year. “I’d like a word.”

Ludwig sees Gilbert’s eyebrows spike in his peripheral vision. “Now?”

Aldrich doesn’t pause, just makes his stately way into the hall. “Now.”

_He knows. He knows. He knows._

Ludwig swallows his dread and follows.

“So,” Mikkel says, “what have you been up to?”

Peter smashes his toy airplane into the leather arm of the couch. “Playing with Isi. And Hana. And Pappa but he, sometimes, he goes to work sometimes a lot and he’s not home. We play airplanes and boats and once, one time, we, um, we had a boat and, in the sink, and we floated it in with the, with pennies to see where, and see when it would floatest the most.”

Mikkel blinks. “Wow. That sounds like a barrel of monkeys, kiddo.”

Peter looks up at him. “What’s barrel of monkeys?”

Mikkel seems to recall having a grand time playing with a plastic barrel that contained a chain of monkeys, but he supposes different toys are a generational thing. Even the plane Peter plays with now is a cartoonish approximation, a grand departure from the hand-carved one Mikkel had as a wee whelp. “Just an expression. It means fun.”

Peter nods and crashes his plane again, adding a wet-lipped _fshhchhchch!_ for emphasis.

Mikkel’s not sure why this is an uncomfortable setup. He’s never uncertain with Peter when Tino or Berwald or Bjørn are around, but sitting here without even a dog to supervise them feels like a lot of pressure. He knows he needs to get over this, though, which is why he offered to watch Peter when Berwald mentioned seeing to an issue in Aldrich’s car. _That’s a great idea,_ Bjørn had said, before any protest could come—fast enough, in fact, that Mikkel actually worried he’d continue on into some sort of announcement. An announcement that Mikkel has purposefully kept quiet about. If Bjørn knew he was nervous about it, after all, he’d most likely leave him no choice but to bring it up. _The best way to expand a comfort zone is to dive out of it._ An admirable belief system, but it’s a whole different ball game when Aldrich is watching.

It’s bad enough being distantly related. He can’t imagine the stuff Gilbert and Ludwig deal with.

Peter’s third crash into the couch is the most violent yet and Mikkel starts to worry about the edges of that plastic plane scuffing the leather of the couch. “Maybe don’t go so rough, buddy,” Mikkel says, gently tugging the plane away from the cushion. “You don’t want—”

Peter yanks the plane away and glares, thirty pounds of pure indignance. “Mine!”

This feels suspiciously like a teaching moment.

Mikkel carefully puts his hand over the plane. “We don’t yell at people. And we don’t get angry like that, okay? I wasn’t gonna take it from you. I just don’t want you to—”

“My plane!” Peter squirms away from Mikkel. “I can play how I want and I want to play crashing landing.” To illustrate, he soars the plane high above them. The trajectory is undeniable. Mikkel gives a brief thought to the hiding he would’ve received if he said something like that to either of his parents.

Then he takes hold, as gently as possible, of Peter’s pudgy wrist. “Okay, we’re not gonna do that. I’ll take the plane from you if you’re going to act like that with it.”

Peter screams as if Mikkel set him on fire. “NOOOO!”

Mikkel watches in horror as Peter drops limp on the couch, sobbing red-faced from nowhere; the only thing keeping him from slithering to the floor is Mikkel’s grasp on his arm. Peter is impossibly loud, crying and gasping for breath, but it’s different to the crying of a pup in a store. Mikkel doesn’t feel any instinct to protect this whelp. Where’s the parental instinct? Does it not apply in the midst, when he’s the one who prompted—arguably not, but still—the outburst? What is there to keep him from getting annoyed, or even angry, and yelling at his own kid to just shut up?

Mikkel releases Peter and the pup slips softly to the floor. He rolls onto his belly, plane forgotten on the couch above, and wails at the injustice of the world. Mikkel cannot believe no one has come running. Everyone in this house can certainly hear how loud Peter is being, and how terrible Mikkel is at parenting. Why isn’t anyone rushing in, rescuing poor Peter, telling Mikkel off?

_This. It’ll be this, every day, until you find something. And maybe Bjørn will still want to work. Then what? And what if it’s twins?_

Mikkel glances at the plane, picks it up, and crashes it into the cushion.

After some debate, Arthur has been assigned the exciting task of supervising the pots on the stove.

Not that he minds. He’s always preferred baking to cooking; dislike authority though he may, the strictness of the directions leaves little room for improvisation and thus error. The other omegas, sharing playful anecdotes about the shenanigans of their alphas and the intricacies of pregnancy, can have their fill of the dressing and the turkey and the—

Arthur’s train of thought stops dead in its tracks. _Other omegas._ They’re not the other omegas. They’re _the_ omegas, because he is not one. He thought he was past the point where he accidentally misgendered himself. He thought he’d settled into his identity quite well, all things considered. He’s just playing a part right now. It’s not going to affect him. He won’t let it.

“What about you, Arthur?” Tino asks. “Do you and Gil have any plans?”

Arthur blinks. “For . . . ?”

Feliciano giggles. “Pups, silly. Have you started trying yet?”

 _Yet._ Oh, dear. Arthur tries not to let contempt come over him. This is Feliciano and Tino, after all. They’re not creatures you can stay angry at. Bjørn, well, at least he hasn’t said anything yet. They’ve come up against each other enough in the past that they know to give a wide berth. Arthur knows this question is harmless, but he still feels claustrophobic with it taking up so much space around him.

“Er, no,” he replies. “No, we haven’t really talked about it.”

He feels like he should say more, but he doesn’t know what. Something like _I think he assumes I don’t want to carry them_ is probably accurate, and also correct from his point of view, but he can’t say that. It invites too many further questions, and it’ll just make things more awkward. How can he tell three omegas—one a dam, two to-be—that he doesn’t want pups at all?

“Oh,” Feliciano says, and there’s a bit of that same falling expression he had in the living room.

“Well, there’s plenty of time,” Tino says, with a patented maternal smile. “You’re both young.”

Arthur’s mouth feels too tight for his smile. “Mm.”

Bjørn is watching him. Arthur doesn’t dare make eye contact. He turns back to the stove and stirs the pot of corn. He wishes something would boil over so they’d evict him to the living room. He can vaguely hear Peter in there, shouting or shrieking. Some sort of tantrum, probably. He appreciates Tino ignoring it; he shares the belief that pups can’t be coddled too much. Then again, perhaps it’s not his place to have an opinion, if he’s never going to be a parent himself. _Never going to honor the sacred omega tradition of giving birth, creating life . . ._

Maybe if he turns up the heat surreptitiously, he can speed up the process of getting the hell out of this kitchen.

“Oh—uh-oh,” Feliciano says, tone abruptly indulgent. “I think someone needs some attention.”

Arthur looks up, scandalized, then realizes he’s not the someone in question. Gilbert has found his way into the kitchen, but he’s not here for the cinnamon-scented punch on the counter. His pupils are dilated and his pale skin is colored enough that there’s no doubt in Arthur’s mind. The headiness of his scent just confirms it: he’s going into rut.

“Goddamn it, Gil,” Arthur mutters, then puts on a cursed smile for the sake of his audience. “Hello, you.”

Gilbert crowds closer than one generally would outside a bedroom and leans his head down to be in even tighter proximity. “Can you . . .” He’s not beyond speech then, not fully gone. He sniffs behind Arthur’s ear, where he dabbed some perfume barely an hour ago, and a shiver goes through him. A whine filters through his words. “Can you help me with something real quick?”

 _I’m sure it’ll be quick._ Arthur can already feel it against his hip; it’s a good thing his mate wore dark trousers. He gives the omegas an apologetic laugh. “Looks like you’re losing me for a bit.”

Tino comes over to take the spoon from him. “That’s alright,” he says, with genuine kindness and all. “Hopefully you’ll be back down in time for dinner!”

Arthur opens his mouth to assure him that Gilbert has nothing like stamina during rut, but then realizes what he means. Before he started his shots, Gilbert’s rut would most generally trigger his heat, and vice versa. It’s a neat little system of biology that works quite well, all things considered. But Arthur doesn’t go into heat anymore. And no one but him, Gilbert, and his doctor know that. Which means he’ll be stuck upstairs in Gilbert’s old bedroom, pretending to be in heat.

“Hopefully,” he agrees, numb, and lets Gilbert herd him into the hall and up the stairs. He can barely get the door closed before he’s being pinned flat against it. Normally it would be a massive turn-on to have Gilbert grinding desperately against him, seeking relief from him without even kissing first, but when Arthur’s already in this mood it just makes it worse. Downstairs he’s seen as an omega, up here he’s seen as—what, a means to an end? A hole in the wall? And the fact that it was most likely this cursed perfume that got them into this mess . . .

“Stop,” he says, and the whimper from Gilbert is the most pitiful sound he’s ever heard. He doesn’t doubt that his mate would obey, would back off and resort to his own hand if Arthur denied him, but he won’t torture him that much. Still, he turns around and urges Gilbert back, back, until they fall onto the bed. Arthur lands a bit harder than intended and Gilbert’s hips pitch upward even as an apologetic expression furrows his brow, seeking any stimulation they can find. Arthur unbuckles their belts, tugs down their pants. Sometimes it’s exotic, empowering almost. Right now it’s just another unwanted reminder.

Gilbert is still whining, without any inhibition now. The animal in him would prefer to be on top or behind, but he’s starving: he’ll devour Arthur however he can. Arthur had wanted to be in control, but he can see it probably won’t help. Maybe it’s best to just let his mate cover him, protect him, claim him.

As they roll over, an exhale hisses into Arthur’s ear, and after a moment he realizes it was laced with words. Well, just two: _liebe dich._

Arthur buries his face in Gilbert’s neck. He can only gasp and mouth the words into his mate’s pale, warm skin: _You, too._

Ludwig hasn’t been welcomed into his sire’s study since the day he told him his plans to officially pair-bond with Feliciano, move him into a house, and start a family of his own. Aldrich took it surprisingly well; different though he may be from Feliciano’s cheery softness, Ludwig thinks he secretly adores the little omega. He knows Feliciano loves Aldrich, but it’s never been difficult for Feliciano to love anyone—or anything, for that matter. (Ludwig is fairly certain he loves the washing machine. And dryer.) But Ludwig’s family isn’t wired that way. He can’t give something away so easily, nor can he accept it. Aldrich’s affection has always been a hard-earned prize, and even then _affection_ is a strong word. Ludwig genuinely can’t remember the last time his sire touched him. Have they ever hugged? Did he carry him when he was a pup? Presumably, but he has no memory of it at all. He can remember piggyback rides from Gilbert, though . . .

Aldrich doesn’t sit at his desk, but he steps behind it to open a drawer. “It’s been three months, has it not?”

Ludwig has to clear his throat. “Yes, sir. Almost.”

It’s not a lie. He hasn’t outright lied yet. They told everyone about the pup nearly three months ago. It’s just been lies of omission since then. Ludwig, raised to fight honorably and speak in the same way, dislikes this twisting of language he’s come to use, but what else is there?

_Why can’t we just tell them? We can’t wait forever . . ._

But there is a part of Ludwig that thinks, _We could try again. We could keep trying, and pretend this was the first pup._

He hasn’t had the courage to say that to Feliciano. Of course not; what has all of this proven, if not that he is a coward?

Aldrich withdraws a small box from the drawer and places it on his desk. “Here.”

Ludwig slowly steps forward to accept it. It’s an old box, a pleasant hand-made wooden affair. Its hinges are a bit stiff, but it’s a sturdy little thing. Feeling Aldrich’s gaze on him, he stops admiring the craftsmanship and opens the lid all the way. Inside, resting on a thin layer of cushioned velvet, is a silver crescent moon.

Ludwig studies it a moment, unable to look away. He can tell it’s perfectly smooth without needing to touch, but that’s not why he’s drawn to it. He can’t name the exact reason—bizarrely, he feels a pull toward it mostly because he feels he ought to. He wants to find some intrinsic connection to this little moon, but he can’t. He looks to Aldrich, at a loss.

Aldrich’s face is as impossible to read as ever, but there seems to be a lightness to those cold blue eyes. “It hung above your crib. And Gilbert’s. It would bring strength and nobility, for a warrior to sleep under the moon. Your dam believed such things.” He glances at a painting on the wall, wolves chasing elk chasing stars. “He was right, about you two at least.”

Ludwig’s lips part but no sound can escape. For Aldrich to not only give him this, but mention his dam, an omega Ludwig has only seen briefly in photo albums ( _don’t touch them with your grubby fingers_ ), and then to compliment the honor of his sons . . . Ludwig swallows thickly.

“You—you want my pup to have this?”

Aldrich doesn’t remark about the thinness of his voice or the slight stutter at the start. He just looks at him and nods, once. That is all he needs.

Ludwig shakes his head a little, but he stops himself from continuing. He knows how important gestures are to his sire, even if the alpha seems to be so deathly still at times that one might think he’s forgotten he _can_ use body language. Ludwig looks at the moon one last time—he so wishes he had a faint memory of it dangling above him, but it’s been too long to recall such things—before delicately closing the lid of the box.

“Thank you,” he says, once he’s sure his voice won’t break.

Aldrich looks at him long enough that Ludwig gets the odd sense he’s about to say something, but then his sire abruptly nods again and raises a hand toward the door. “I’ll rejoin you soon.”

Ludwig wishes there was more that could be said, but it’s not an option between him and his sire. Never has been. Even thinking of the potential sentiments he could offer makes his ears start to warm in embarrassment. So he just takes his leave, pulling the door quietly closed behind him. Instead of starting down the stairs, he lingers in the hall, measuring his breaths.

The box is cool in his hands. It feels heavier by the minute. Over the bustle of people downstairs and the muffled whines from Gilbert’s room—he doesn’t even want to know—Ludwig can almost hear the moon whispering from inside the box.

 _Liar,_ it says.

Berwald has already fixed the issue with Aldrich’s car and checked the level of oil and windshield washer fluid, but he still stays in the garage. If Tino knew he was doing nothing, he’d probably tell him _Ber, stop puttering over that thing and come talk to someone._ Berwald smiles faintly, an internal smile, at the idea of his mate saying that. Probably with his hands on his hips. He loves his hips. And his hands, the slight pudginess of his wrists. And his cheeks, for that matter, round and bright as apples when he comes in from the cold. Peter has cheeks like that too, but they’re likely just puppy fat. Still, Berwald hopes their adopted pup grows to take after his dam, not his sire. He hopes Peter will always be someone who stays in and has fun with his friends, rather than loitering in a garage.

It’s not that he’s nervous about going back in. Tino has asked him that before. Berwald isn’t upset about it. It’s just that it’s so much easier to be quiet by himself, rather than around other people. It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just Mikkel, his dearest friend (aside from Tino, of course), but there are others here. He’s related to the Beilschmidts through pair-bonding rather than blood, and that distance seems to reflect in their relationship to him. He feels a kinship in Aldrich, another who finds comfort in silence, but Ludwig is different and Gilbert even more so. Mikkel gets along with them both, because he gets along with just about everyone, but Berwald struggles to find things to say to them. Feliciano is like Tino, soft enough to be no trouble, but he doesn’t know Berwald enough to properly interpret his silences. And Arthur is a total stranger. Berwald doesn’t know what to expect from that one, or indeed if he should expect anything at all.

 _You remember him, from the birthday party, don’t you?_ Tino asked on the drive. _He gave Peter socks. He must’ve knit them himself. The ones with the little rabbits on them?_

Berwald vaguely remembers Arthur as only glimpses: wide green eyes, ill-fitting button-ups, a mouth too messy for Berwald to find any appeal in. He’s an odd omega, not that Berwald would say that out loud. Reminds him a bit of a teenager, actually, the uncertainty and bluster. But then, he is quite young, isn’t he? Young enough to have spots on his—

Pain shoots up Berwald’s back and the hood drops from his hand.

“Bloody hell!” Arthur is suddenly here, splayed diagonal across the front of the car to hold up the hood. There are the eyes, wider than ever before. “That’s a good way to lose some fingers. Or a head.”

Berwald has to take a moment to process this. He’s never been a fast-moving creature. Slowly, he lowers his arm and straightens his spine; pain buzzes up and down, a burning sensation not unlike the fizz of champagne. (He’s only had champagne once. He didn’t like it.) He looks at the hood for a long moment, then says, “I must have dropped it when I was trying to put it down.”

“. . . Yeah, I gathered that.” Arthur lets the hood drop down into place from a more respectable distance; Berwald is pleasantly surprised he didn’t just slam it. “I was more wondering _why_ you dropped it, personally.”

If it was Mikkel, Bjørn, Aldrich, Ludwig— _any_ of the others, would he tell the truth? Probably not. He dislikes lying, but so often it’s easier to just stay quiet, to nod, to shake your head, to shrug. But this is Arthur. He and Gilbert could be separated by the next reunion; Berwald may never see him again.

“I hurt my back,” he replies. “A slipped disc. I’m still recovering from surgery.”

 _Oh. That was quite easy._ Another pleasant surprise.

Arthur raises his eyebrows. “Wow. Sounds serious.”

Berwald’s not sure what to say to that. It hurts, but that’s life. He’ll get through it, so there’s no use in complaining about it. “It’s getting better.”

Arthur nods, distracted by the black on his hands from the underside of the hood. He rubs at it but doesn’t have much luck—although, to be fair, he doesn’t seem to mind it. “Good.” He glances toward the door. “I, uh. Could I ask you for a favor?”

Berwald follows his gaze, but there’s nothing particularly interesting about the door. “Yes.”

Arthur only manages to look at Berwald for a second before it’s back to the door again. “Do I, er, smell of anything . . . ?”

Berwald wonders if this is one of those trick questions some omegas like to ask. Tino never asks those questions, but he’s gotten some from Bjørn before and he’s never fully sure where things go wrong before those arguments start. But Arthur isn’t even looking at him; it seems safe to just answer the question honestly.

Berwald leans a bit closer and sniffs. “Yes. You smell like Gilbert and sex.”

A bit of red splotches its way up Arthur’s neck. “Yeah, he’s sleeping off his rut. But—nothing else?”

At the same time Berwald inhales and recognizes the scent at the core of _Arthur_ , he realizes what the omega is telling him. He doesn’t smell sweet and musky like an omega would, especially after mating. His scent is sharper, acidic enough to wrinkle Berwald’s nose a bit. This is a typical consequence: alpha-scent to other alphas is hard-wired to be a challenge for most. Berwald’s brow furrows.

Arthur tentatively slides his gaze back to Berwald. He’s holding himself stiffly, but—even though he’s not exactly an expert at reading expressions—Berwald can see the vulnerability he’s barely hiding. And, after a few moments, the recognition.

“So you can tell,” Arthur says, perhaps softer than he intended. “I figured, once I got cleaned up, the perfume would come off too. Hoped it wouldn’t, but. Guess that’s not what fate had planned.”

Berwald can’t begin to understand what is happening right now, but he has always been an excellent listener.

The quiet stretches until it snaps and Arthur bursts out, “I’m on hormone therapy. Have been for months. So.” He rolls his shoulders back and, bravely, meets Berwald’s gaze. “That’s why I don’t smell like an omega anymore. ’Cause I’m not one. Never was.”

Berwald waits until he can be sure he won’t interrupt, then says, “Okay.”

Arthur’s brow lowers on his eyes, distrustful. “Okay? That’s it? As in, _okay_ like—” He shakes his head, mostly to himself. “No, just tell me. Are you—is this—what does okay mean?”

Berwald assumes he doesn’t want a dictionary definition and so pauses to search for a sensible handful of words. For Arthur to be courageous enough to speak this truth when Berwald was too prideful to even tell his friends that he hurt himself . . . this is certainly a humbling night. “It means you are being yourself and that is very good.”

Arthur blinks, glancing around as if there might be cameras poking from between the tools hanging on the wall. “So . . . you’re fine with it.”

“Yes.”

The little alpha stares up at him in a long moment of disbelief, then gives a tiny _how about that_ hum. “Well. Good. Er, thanks. For.” He gestures to the car for whatever reason, then to Berwald, then puts his hands into his pockets instead. “Yeah. ’s good. Okay. Well, are you done with . . . your, you know, automotive activities?”

Berwald doesn’t know Arthur’s middle name, but he knows him well enough to identify alliteration as a sign of recovery. “Yes.” He pauses until it becomes clear Arthur is waiting to hear more; in that moment, the expectant freckled face reminds him of Peter. “I’m going to see how Mikkel is handling babysitting.”

“Oh, yeah, I think I heard a tantrum.” Arthur leads the way over to the door and opens it slowly, peering into the hall. “Coast is clear. I’m gonna sneak back up and see how Gil is doing. Then . . .”

Berwald offers no pressure in his assumption, just an open invitation. “I will see you at dinner.”

The messy mouth twists, but it eventually makes its way toward a smile. “Yeah. You will.”

During a lull in the cooking, Tino enjoys a glance around the kitchen—what a splendid feeling it is, to be able to sit back and let the magic of heat and science do all the work—and says, “Well, I suppose I should check on Peter.”

The words are barely out of his mouth before Bjørn says, “No, let Mikkel handle it. He needs the practise, and you deserve a break. Just relax.”

Tino could point out that Bjørn, wiping down the counter that seems perfectly clean to Tino’s eye, is being a bit hypocritical there. But such things aren’t in Tino’s nature, and besides: it’s a rare occasion when Bjørn is completely wrong. This is not one of them.

“I am enjoying my mini vacation,” he admits with a little private smile. “I don’t get too many of those. Not that I’m—”

“Complaining?” Feliciano guesses, a smile of his own curling. “We know. You’ve never complained. It’s kinda eerie, actually.”

“Far too saintly,” Bjørn agrees. His smirk is faint and regal, but it’s there. “Take a moment for yourself.”

 _A moment for myself? What does that even look like?_ Tino is saved from this mystery by the appearance of Blackie and Aster. (Berlitz is absent, probably guarding the doors or doing doggie push-ups or something.) Tino smiles fondly at the spunky little dachshund and his golden companion. She doesn’t do much retrieving anymore, but she still has the sweet face that comes with her breed, if a bit whiter than it used to be. Tino can’t help it: he retrieves his purse (it contains too many vital items to stray too far from it) and offers two bone-shaped biscuits. Blackie scarfs his down while Aster gently accepts the gift and crunches it in two, savoring both halves.

“Don’t tell Ludwig,” Tino says, even as he sees Feliciano raising mirthful eyebrows.

Bjørn shakes his head. “I’m not involved.”

“A little treat every now and again doesn’t hurt,” Feliciano declares, with a longing glance toward the punch bowl.

“I’ll have to give one to the others, too,” Tino says, stroking Aster’s lamb-soft ears. “It’s only fair.”

“You have the morals of an only child,” Bjørn remarks.

“In a good way,” Feliciano says through a giggle, so Tino decides to take it as a compliment.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he promises, noting how vague this is only once he’s already out of the room. He really should start being more specific, like Berwald; concrete plans of return are good for preventing separation anxiety in pups, so say the articles Tino has read online. Schedules are beneficial to development. Berwald can certainly attest to that. Tino’s mate is like the giants of old: slow and mighty, but this lack of speed can make it difficult to adjust to a sharp turn in his path. Tino does his best to help guide him. So far, they’ve proven an excellent machine. Not even an additional cog—a cog which occasionally changes its rotation on a whim and often stops spinning entirely because he wants something or doesn’t want something or wants to know what he wants—can disrupt their performance.

Tino finds Berlitz seeing to a rawhide chew near the basement door. He offers her the biscuit and she looks up at him as if to chastise this behavior before returning to her bone. Tino wonders if there has ever been a dog more like its owner, but leaves the treat nearby just in case. _Hopefully she’ll eat it before Ludwig finds it,_ he thinks as he starts up the staircase. _Maybe Blackie will sniff it out._

He holds his breath as he passes by Gilbert’s closed door, though he couldn’t say why. It’s always seemed a bit rude to him, invasive perhaps, to try and divine details of an encounter by the scents of the parties involved. Perhaps it’s a cultural thing. Another door is shut, farther down the hall—Aldrich’s study? Tino has never spent enough time up here to learn the layout. A nip into one of the bathrooms, nothing more. He doubts Hana would be in there, but he has found her sleeping on the rug beneath the sink at home. He checks. No little white dog.

He’s almost run out of hallway when he hears a peculiar sound. Someone walking? But how can someone be walking so fast in a bedroom? He stops, edges close enough to peer through the gap of the ajar door. Is this Ludwig’s bedroom?

It must be, because there is the alpha himself, pacing back and forth across the span of the room. It’s almost hypnotizing, the steady five steps it takes, the turn, five more steps, turn again. Always military precise, the Beilschmidts. But the look on his face makes it clear this isn’t an exercise. And he’s holding something in his hand, holding it to his chest. A box?

Tino knows he ought to leave Ludwig alone to sort this out, probably, but if he saw Berwald or Mikkel pacing in their bedroom would he ignore them? Certainly not.

He taps his knuckles against the door and gently inquires, “Ludwig? Is everything alright?”

Ludwig stops dead and whirls. “Yes! Of course. Fine.”

They both observe how the enthusiasm of the response proves itself to be false. Then Ludwig averts his gaze and exhales. “It’s the time of year for it, I suppose.”

“For what?” Tino asks gently, assuming Ludwig doesn’t mean candy canes and wrapping paper.

Ludwig rubs the back of his neck. He’s always stiff in posture, but right now he’s almost painfully wooden. “Just . . . stress.”

Tino has the strongest impulse to give Ludwig a hug, but he knows the awkwardness would just add more stress to the poor alpha. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Sad, blue puppy-dog eyes flick to Tino. He can’t say yes, but he can’t bring himself to say no either.

After years of living with Berwald, Tino knows this stoic suffering well. So he sits at the foot of the bed and pats the mattress beside him. “I’m happy to listen. Sometimes it helps to talk something out with someone. And venting is always nice, too.”

Ludwig hesitates, but he sits down—careful not to disturb Tino or the blankets—and looks at the box cradled gingerly in his hands. “My s—Aldrich gave me this. An heirloom. He wants me to give it to my son.”

Tino works to keep a smile off his face. He doesn’t want to sway Ludwig’s reaction with his own. “Oh. Do you think you will?”

A muscle flexes in Ludwig’s jaw, but his voice comes quietly. “Yes. But I can’t do it yet. Because.” He stops abruptly, gives a measured exhale, and surrenders: “Feliciano lost the pup.”

Tino stays silent for a long moment, feeling the pain in his own heart as well as in Ludwig’s as the alpha turns his face away. They both breathe, sitting with the truth in their laps. Tino remembers himself four years ago, sobbing into Berwald’s chest when their third try didn’t work. He doesn’t cry about it anymore, though; he knows that happiness exists beyond this sorrow, and that gives him strength.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “That must have been so terrible for you and Feli.”

Ludwig shakes his head. “I made it worse.” His voice is thick, with a slight warble. He clears his throat. “I wanted to keep it a secret. Feli didn’t want that. I was just too much of a coward to tell you all the truth. I . . . I didn’t want—” He drags a hand down his face. “I didn’t want Aldrich to think I was a failure.”

 _Oh, Ludwig._ Tino rests a hand on Ludwig’s arm. “He won’t think that, dear,” he says. “I know he won’t. It’s not a question of failure or blame or anything like that. It’s no one’s fault. It’s just . . . something that happens sometimes, to some people. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Ludwig must realize who he’s talking to because his eyes go round. “I’m sorry—”

Tino smiles. “It’s no one’s fault,” he says again. “You’re both very responsible and loving people, and if you decide that adopting is what you want to do, you’ll be wonderful parents to your pup no matter how you’re related. And Aldrich will be a . . . supportive grandsire.” _Loving, too, I’m sure,_ he thinks, _but I can’t really see him volunteering for cuddles._ “And if you ever need any help with figuring out the process for IVF or adoption, I would be more than happy to help.”

Ludwig looks at Tino for another long moment, then nods and even finds something like a smile. “Danke.”

Tino pats his shoulder. “Ole hyvä.”

While Arthur sneaks off to the second floor, Berwald returns to the living room. He ducks into the kitchen along the way, but Tino isn’t in there. (Feliciano waves and chirps _Hello Ber-Ber!_ and Berwald doesn’t know how to respond to that so he just waves back and leaves.) The living room is empty but for the glowing tree, the crackling fireplace, and Mikkel wrestling Peter into a hug on the sofa.

“Pappa!” Peter wails, and struggles free from Mikkel’s grasp. The pup runs to Berwald and begs for _up_. Berwald lifts him and, through the string of emotional babbling and the twinge of pain in his spine, looks to Mikkel inquiringly.

Mikkel drags his hands through his hair. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. This has never happened before.”

Berwald sits at his friend’s side and gives Peter his plane. Peter gives Mikkel a distrustful look, but he’s apparently been tuckered out by his time in Uncle Mick’s company because he curls into Berwald’s chest and closes his eyes. Berwald rumbles faintly for his pup’s benefit—no, for both of them, it comforts him too—and considers Mikkel. He looks quite haggard for someone who babysat for less than half an hour. Berwald knows Peter can be a bit overreactional sometimes, but he assumed Mikkel knew how to handle that. Perhaps, since Mikkel has such fire in himself, the flames just create more flames. But this could just be armchair psychology, something Berwald prefers to stay far away from.

“No harm done,” Berwald notes.

Mikkel sighs heavily. “I guess not. But still. I was awful. He acted like he hated me.”

Berwald nods. “Pups do that sometimes.”

Mikkel stares at Peter sidelong. “But . . . I ended up feeling that way, too. Who likes being hated? Adults don’t do that, you know? If you hate somebody, most people still act polite. I guess kids are more honest, but—but he’s just fine, now? He forgave me, that quick? How do you even keep track of that?”

“I don’t,” Berwald admits. Mood swings are a concept he will never fully understand.

Mikkel blinks, then almost laughs. “But . . .” He shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m just . . .”

Berwald shifts Peter on his lap a bit to relieve the pressure on his lower back. “Practise makes perfect. I didn’t know how to do anything at first. Tino helped me a lot. He could sense the right thing, a lot of the time. Omegas know a lot.”

Mikkel’s mouth presses into a flat line. He watches Peter some more, then finally says, “I won’t have Bjørn. I’m going to take time off work, so it’ll be me looking after the pup once he’s born. And I . . . feel like I’m gonna ruin it.”

Berwald considers this.

“I think you shouldn’t worry,” he decides.

Mikkel raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Yeah? Why not?”

“Because you and Bjørn always make things work. You do it very well. Sometimes Tino and I are jealous.” Berwald wonders at the look of shock on his friend’s face. Perhaps communication is as valuable as everyone says it is after all. If only you didn’t have to _talk_ so much to get it done. “And you said the important part. Pups forgive.”

“. . . Yeah.” Mikkel carefully brushes a wisp of blond hair from Peter’s forehead. “I guess that’s the blessing and the curse.”

“The bitter is worth the sweet,” Berwald says, quoting his mate. Borrowing words makes the talking easier.

“Yeah,” Mikkel says for the third time. He looks up at Berwald and there’s finally some brightness in his eyes. “I was excited, in the beginning. I really wanted to get away from work and maybe, I don’t know, re-evaluate. Maybe find something new, once the pup is settled into our routine. Well, once we’re all settled. But then I got really scared of all the . . . newness, I guess.”

Berwald nods. This is a concept he is familiar with.

“I told Bjørn not to tell anybody. I guess I thought it wouldn’t be real until people knew.” Mikkel rolls his shoulders back against the sofa. “But it’s happening anyway. I already agreed to it. I’m not gonna tell Bjørn I changed my mind.”

When nothing else comes, Berwald wonders if he missed a meaning here. “Why not?”

Mikkel fluffs his hair until it’s not so tridirectional and offers a familiar, too-wide smile. “Because he wouldn’t believe me. And he wouldn’t let me, anyway. He knows when I want something and he won’t let me shy away from it just ’cause I’m scared. That’s probably my favorite thing about him, actually.”

Berwald’s faint smile is more external this time. After all this time of Tino encouraging him to step away from his self-imposed restrictions and work around his inborn limitations and allow himself to enjoy life despite those things, he definitely understands that.

They’ve barely had time to sit down for dinner—and Feliciano has only just opened his mouth to ask how Arthur is sliding out a chair and not gasping through a heatwave—before Ludwig clears his throat and says firmly, “I have an announcement to make.”

Gilbert raises pale eyebrows. Arthur blinks, yanked from his own inward spiral of worry. Feliciano closes his mouth. Bjørn hushes Peter while Berwald watches Tino’s expression turn warmly proud. Mikkel sits back in his chair a bit, relieved. At the head of the table, Aldrich only observes it all with the same unreadable face as ever.

This audience has adrenaline tingling in Ludwig’s hands, but this is neither something to fight nor something to fly from. He doesn’t make eye contact with his sire, but he does with Tino, then Arthur, then Feliciano. “I’m sorry to give you this news now, but I wanted to tell you—no. Sorry. I didn’t want this to go on any longer. The truth deserves to be told. I’m the one who was hiding from it.” He shakes his head a little, mostly to himself. “I’m sorry, I should have rehearsed this more. I thought I had it.”

“You’re doing fine,” Bjørn says, earning a shocked look from Arthur.

Ludwig, emboldened, tips up his chin. “Feliciano and I lost our pup. I don’t know when we’ll try again. Maybe we’ll try a different way.” He focuses only on Feliciano now, so as not to be distracted by the furrowed brows and frowns of sympathy. “Regardless, I should have just listened to my mate. He didn’t want to lie to anyone. I just . . . need to learn to be as brave as you, Feli.”

Feliciano covers his mouth with his hands, then erupts in a squeal of overflowing emotion and jumps up to embrace Ludwig. The omega peppers his alpha with kisses and whimpers until Ludwig has to calm him with a soothing rumble. When Feliciano at last pulls away—not without kissing him on both cheeks and telling him _I love you_ in three languages—Ludwig turns his attention to the head of the table.

Aldrich’s face still hasn’t changed. And, as the seconds pass, it still doesn’t. His cold gaze slides from Ludwig to Feliciano, but it’s impossible to say what he’s thinking.

“Well, while you’re processing that, I’ll just, er, slip in my little announcement,” Arthur says, so fast it’s clear at least Berwald missed some words. “If you’re wondering why I’m down here and not, y’know, upstairs, it’s because I don’t go into heat anymore. Because I’m transitioning. Because I’m trans.” Gilbert grins and Arthur avoids his eye along with everyone else’s in favor of blushing in the general direction of his plate. “So, yeah. Carry on.”

Mikkel cocks his head to one side. “Huh. That makes sense.”

“You look much more comfortable now,” Bjørn agrees. “I wondered.”

“That’s wonderful,” Tino adds, “that you’re being your true self.”

“So . . .” Ludwig takes a moment to go through it in his head again; it’s difficult to compute while coming down from the high of impromptu public speaking. “You’re an alpha now?”

Arthur’s ears are aflame, but he nods.

“Alright.” Ludwig nods, too, a businesslike confirmation. Mikkel supplies the more congenial conclusion: “Welcome to the club, Kirkland.”

Arthur actually smiles at that—well, insofar as one side of his mouth quirks—but Gilbert’s grin has become a little wanting. When Arthur told him a few minutes ago he was planning on coming out to everyone, he didn’t assume he meant at the dinner table. And now Aldrich is looking at _them_ with that frigidly impassive face . . .

“While we’re on the topic of announcements,” Mikkel says, in the manner of stepping the first foot out slowly and then prancing swiftly in the rest of the way, “I’m gonna take a break from work when Bjørn has our pup. I think I might start looking for something different. I’m, you know, uh . . .”

“Keeping your options open?” Bjørn offers, a gesture of affection in itself.

Mikkel smiles and twines their fingers in his lap. “Exactly.” But then his lightness fades and he too looks down to the end of the table, searching Aldrich for anything like a reaction. And again, there is nothing. Even Peter stops messing with his mashed potato and looks around at them all, bewildered by the tension.

“I hurt my back,” Berwald says. “But it’s getting better.”

Tino smiles at his mate, proud of him for contributing even if the timing is a bit off. 

“Don’t keep stuff like that a secret,” Gilbert protests. “That’s how you get presents.”

“Yeah, I would’ve gotten you some Get Well Soon chocolate,” Mikkel says.

“Uh-oh,” Tino mumbles, knowing full well Berwald would eat a single chocolate and then leave the rest of them for him.

“Chocolates?” Peter asks, perking up at the potential for sweets.

“After you eat your dinner,” Feliciano and Arthur say in near unison; Ludwig and Gilbert glance at each other, alarmed.

“Ahem.”

Everyone, even Berwald, turns quickly to look down the table. Aldrich waits until he has everyone’s attention, then waits a few moments more, then begins to speak in his deep, measured tone. “I had been planning to tell you all this separately, because it seemed better that way. Now I see it was just cowardice on my part. If you can all speak private truths in front of this family, I can as well.” His gaze finds Ludwig, then Gilbert. “I am selling the house.”

Surprise crackles into the air, sharpening the flicker of the candles at the centrepiece.

“But . . .” This is all Gilbert manages. He looks at his sire, seeking something he won’t find, then turns his gaze around the room as if to memorize the details of his childhood home.

“I . . .” Ludwig finds his speech first. “I suppose it makes sense. It’s not reasonable for one person to live in such a big house on their own.”

Aldrich inclines his head only slightly.

“It served you well,” Bjørn remarks. “But nothing should be expected to last forever.”

“Someone else will love it, too,” Tino says, bringing a bit too much sentimentality for the Beilschmidts. “Just like you have.”

Ludwig shifts a bit in his chair, sheepish. Gilbert’s mouth quirks, first into a frown and then into a bittersweet sort of smile. It’s delayed, but eventually all of them discover the humility here: even Aldrich, the mighty patriarch of the Beilschmidt pack, was nervous to tell his pack he’s giving something up.

Gilbert finally meets Aldrich’s gaze and gives perhaps the warmest smile of their entire relationship. “That’s okay, Dad,” he says, his English both placing a boundary and breaking one down at the same time. “We’ll figure it out.”

Aldrich neither bristles— _I didn’t ask for help_ —nor denies— _I can handle this myself or I would not have attempted it._ He just takes in the warmth from both of his pups, and from the more distant members of his pack, and he inclines his head again to them all, deep enough that they can no longer see his eyes. Never before have they seen him show gratitude such that it comes through a gesture of submission; the shock of it takes Ludwig’s breath away. But here, in this tiny collection of seconds, civility falls away and it is just a wolf bowing to his brethren: _Danke._

Then the peace is shattered by Peter’s squeaky voice. “Hana?”

“Hush,” Tino whispers, but it’s too late.

“Where’s Hana?” Peter demands.

“I haven’t seen her in a while,” Ludwig says, always ready to prioritize canine safety. He notes Berlitz in the doorway, and stretches out a foot to find Aster and Blackie dozing under the table. It is bizarre for little Hana to be elsewhere when everyone else is in here.

“I was looking for her earlier, but I never did find her . . .” Tino trails off rather guiltily.

“She couldn’t get outside,” Berwald points out. “She has to be in here somewhere.”

“And the basement door and garage door stay shut,” Gilbert says. “So this floor or upstairs.”

Without warning, Peter gets up and dashes out of the room. “Hana!”

“Peter!” Tino calls. He starts to rise, then glances toward Aldrich.

There might be a hint of annoyance on Aldrich’s face, but it doesn’t matter because he’s saying, “She’s probably asleep. Once we find her, we won’t have to worry about it.”

Imagine the confusion of the turkey, lovingly prepared and then abandoned before it could even be cut.

Arthur doesn’t find Hana in the living room. Berwald doesn’t find her in the garage. Ludwig doesn’t find her in his bedroom. Gilbert doesn’t find her in _his_ bedroom. Aldrich doesn’t find her in his study. Bjørn doesn’t find her in the kitchen. Mikkel doesn’t find her in the bathroom. Tino doesn’t find her in the master bedroom. Feliciano doesn’t find her in the downstairs guest room.

Her Peter finds her, and then everyone else slowly finds them.

Curled up in the newspaper and cardboard boxes of the empty upstairs guest bedroom, Peter holds a whimpering Hana. Then Tino holds Peter, and Berwald holds Tino.

“She must have been worried we would leave her,” Ludwig murmurs. “Dogs recognize things like this. Her last family must have . . .”

“It doesn’t matter what her last family did,” Feliciano declares. “This is her family now.”

No one could tell you the order of things: who got up first, who led the way to the dining room, who snuck the most turkey to the dogs under the table. Feliciano and Arthur get giggly on punch. Gilbert and Mikkel compete to see who can stuff themselves with the most food. Tino’s pie isn’t nearly as aesthetic as Bjørn’s, but both are equally appreciated. The warm honey of the evening flows from the dining room to the living room, where they all melt into cushioned seats while Peter and the dogs cuddle beneath the tree. Outside, snow begins to softly fall.

“The next house will not be so large,” Aldrich says abruptly, “but I . . . I would like to do this again next year.”

Gilbert slips his arm around Arthur’s waist. “Me, too.”

Nods all around. Arthur raises his eyebrows in surprise when everyone looks to him, but he’s well past nervousness now. “We’ll make it work,” he says, only slightly slurring. He raises his mug. “Merry Christmas, et cetera. Uh. Prost?”

Seven mugs lift in approval.

_“Prost.”_

  
  


_Happy Holidays!_


End file.
